Sometimes I feel bad about how it went down. Maybe I could’ve been more communicative, a little more gentle. But when something’s over it’s over, and nothing you say or do is going to lessen the hurt. And so I had to let my wingman go.

This was about six months ago. The writing had been on the wall. Our phone conversations were shorter. Plans never got made or, if they did, one of us broke them. We kept in touch, calling once in awhile to see what the other was up to. But we both knew it was over, and that we had to move on—he to a new phase of nights on the couch watching forensic crime dramas, and myself to a more manipulate-able wingman. But you can’t escape your past, and I knew there would come a reckoning.

That day came last Wednesday. With my current wingman out of commission for the first part of the night, I called my former sidekick. His girlfriend had recently moved in, so I wasn’t expecting him to say “yes” to an evening out on such short notice. “Sure,” he said. “But I’ve just made a cheesecake. From scratch. It’s in the oven right now, so I won’t be able to leave for an hour.”

This was fine with me, since he wasn’t the only one with kitchen duties to perform. And so, after taking the frozen pizza out of its box and micro-waving it, I readied myself. My former wingman arrived on time and, once in his car, I began outlining the night’s itinerary. It was starting to seem like old times when his phone rang.

“Just a second. Hi there. Yes. No. There are chicken potpies on the counter. Help yourself. But don’t eat the cheesecake. I still have to make a topping, maybe caramel, for it.” Did I mention his new girlfriend had moved in?

I was happy to finally land at Liberty. The Vancouver furniture emporium was throwing a party to showcase the paintings and sculptures of four local artists. The pieces were impressive but competed for our attention with a martini bar, a room full of the city’s hobnobbing glitterati, and the work of a bodypainter. This skilled individual had the advantage of having his (or her) work displayed on the nude bodies of three models made over to look like marble statues.

Despite the long hours he now kept in his kitchen, Wingman # 1’s social skills apparently hadn’t turned rusty. As wingmen go he was always able to hold his own, and this latest occasion was no exception as we chatted our way through the soiree. We were about to leave when my phone went off.

“Hey, I just had my car towed and there’s a lineup of people here at the yard, waiting to get their cars,” said Wingman #2, who’d been attending a soccer game. “Can you come and get me and I’ll get it later?”

I hesitated—it wasn’t my car, after all. But we were already planning on heading downtown, so grabbing him on the way wasn’t too big of a hassle. Or so I thought. But, a little while later, the three of us were at a nightclub. Wingman #1 turned to me. “I see,” he said. “So you only called me because he couldn’t go, and you were going to get together with him later anyway.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said lamely. It wasn’t, not exactly—I would have been fine with staying in if Wingman #1 had said, for instance, that he had a whole evening of cake-baking ahead of him. But he hadn’t, and so now here the three of us were…

Indeed, all would have been fine. Except that, as we were leaving our last destination—a rock ’n’ roll bar on the city’s impoverished Lower Eastside–#2 asked for a ride back downtown to the tow lot. Wingman #1 tensed up. I could tell he hadn’t been entirely pleased by the situation, but he’d been civil up to this point. Now he was being asked to inconvenience himself further by giving a ride to his replacement in the opposite direction from which we were headed. Of course, he did it—that’s just the kind of guy he is–but I could tell by the grunts and heavy sighs that came from the driver’s seat following this errand that he wasn’t pleased.